


Never

by BaronessEmma



Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, I promise, Rape/Non-con Elements, Tony Angst, Tony Feels, Tony is more of a gentleman than you think, Triggers, but a happy ending, dark!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 07:42:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3561713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BaronessEmma/pseuds/BaronessEmma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In all his years of hedonism, there is one thing Tony has never done. It's the one thing he will never do. Never. No matter what happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dawn

Dawn was a different sort of thing when you were buried alive in damp caves, Tony had discovered. He had been used to waking up at various times all his life, and getting up at first light was nothing new, since he had done practically that almost every time he'd had "company" over for a night. He would often wake up just as the sky was turning grey, and there would be this intense need to get away from the stranger in his bed. So he'd make sure whoever it was, was still asleep, and in the blue shades of early morning he'd go freshen up in the outdoor shower stall next to the pool. He was always a little disappointed when it was raining and he couldn't shower outside in the mornings. It smelled so. . . _clean_. Mornings _ought_ to smell clean, he thought.

Then Pepper would come with his coffee, and he would _feel_ clean, somehow.

Six A.M. in a cave was vastly different. It was dark, and although the air was cold, it was dank and muggy from poor ventilation. Most of the rooms he had access to were also smelly from poor hygiene and drainage. His first thought every morning was _home_ , and then _her_. He never named her, even in his mind. He didn't know when this enforced labor was going to change into out-and-out torture, and he wasn't - _was not_ \- going to say her name to anyone. Not even himself. Too, he'd almost always wake up with a racing heart from the edges of a nightmare he couldn't remember and didn't want to - though if he could have only _named_ the terror his mind threw at him every night, he might have been able to fight it. Sleeping tired him out more than the work did, and he wasn't entirely certain the dreams weren't going to drive him mad.

_Wake up and smell the fear._

Then he would shake his head and check to make sure the arc reactor was still working right.

He'd get up and poke Yinsen in the shoulder, and they'd work on the armor for a few hours before someone came and shoved a plate of half-stale flatbread and a few bowls of oddly spiced protein pastes through a hole in the door. Then they'd work more, with no further refreshment except for the metallic tasting, tepid water Yinsen insisted they boil before drinking. Twice a week they were given tea leaves, which they steeped tied in the toe of a sock.

Practically the only thing that was the same as his old life was a burning, intense desire to _get away_.

He let Yinsen take care of counting the days. If he had had to count them himself he would have cracked. Day after day, day after day - working on the one thing that might win him freedom, and pretending to work on the one thing that could only earn him shame and death, and trying with every fiber of his being to just _survive_ in between all that - it was enough. He didn't care how long it took, and if he had forced himself to care, it would have been one thing too many.

"It's been two weeks, Stark," Yinsen said one morning over breakfast, "Twice as long as you thought you could make it." He gestured at the arc reactor.

Tony was surprised it had been that long, but he took care not to show it. "Mmm, yeah, sure," he replied, absently, "We need to work on the servomotors for Section Four today, could you find the plans for them?"

Yinsen went over to the seemingly disorganized pile of plans and supplies - actually Tony kept meticulous mental inventory of absolutely everything that was on the few worktables they had been allowed - and riffled through the crudely drawn pages for the plans of one of the legs of the suit of armor they were building.

"Stark," said Yinsen, conversationally, "It has been _two_ weeks, you know."

"Yeah, what about it?" said Tony, mumbling around the last piece of their morning bread, and ambling over to the worktable with the parts for the armor's right leg on it.

"Two weeks, Stark, is when most men begin to. . . be men again." Yinsen spoke casually, but with a hint of seriousness, and a strange tone of worry back behind his words.

Tony blinked. He set up the first two pieces that needed welding. He itched the healing scar around the implant in his chest. Then he got it.

"I don't think you need to worry, Yinsen. I'll be able to. . . control it." For the first time in his life he felt embarrassed of his reputation, "It isn't like I came here looking for a good time - I _do_ have priorities every now and then, you know."

Yinsen came over to the worktable with the plans in his hand, "I'm not worried about your ability to control yourself, Stark," he put the plans down and put a warning, yet comforting hand on his patient's shoulder, "I am worried what they will do once they think you are. . . yourself again."

"What could they do that wouldn't interrupt this bomb construction we're doing, huh?" Tony smirked, "Seemed to me that's what they wanted from me."

Yinsen nodded, "But you heard what they said too. . . what Bakaar said when you first woke up from the surgery - "The greatest mass murderer of our time" - remember?"

Tony grimaced, "I'm not likely to forget. . ."

"Then you must think, as I do, that it is not just what you can _do_ that they want from you, but who you _are_."

Tony blinked slowly, and looked Yinsen in the face. " _What_ are you talking about?"

Before Yinsen could answer, their door slammed open, and six guards came in, two taking Tony by the arms, two covering Yinsen, and two more flanking Raza, who looked Tony up and down very slowly.

"Bring the new prince," he said, and all at once Tony feared the absolute worst.

He was dragged down a dark corridor, twisting left and right, going uphill and down, and all with so much noise it was as though he was in a crowd of men, not merely six. He tried to count steps and turns, but he was lifted and spun too many times to be sure where he was. Then he was thrown into a very small stone room.

"Let the new prince be a man. . . if he can. . ." rumbled Raza's voice, and all the guards laughed raucously, "And remember that I have generously given you this privilege." Then he turned away, and the guards followed him.

Tony's eyes had quickly adjusted in the dimly lit alcove, and he made out a huddled figure in one corner before the heavy door slammed shut.

"One hour," a gruff voice said through the food hatch, and then it too slid closed with a definite clank.

Tony looked about him. There was a bunk and bucket half full of water along one wall, and a darkened lantern in the middle of the room. He moved to open it and have some more light, when he heard the cloth-wrapped bundle in the corner gasp a little, and it shuffled tighter into the narrow space. He opened the lantern, directing a harsh yellow glare against whatever it was. He left the lantern on the floor, and went over to the corner, reaching out and pulling back a hood of coarse, dusty blue cloth from a wide-eyed, terrified head.

It was a girl.


	2. Noon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Trigger Warning*

It took Tony a good twenty seconds to realize what they had put him in this room for - he had feared the worst, and instead here was this girl. . .

He backed up and sat down on the bunk.

They couldn't expect. . . him. . . to. . .

They _didn't_. . .

The girl pulled her hood back over her head, and shivered in her corner, breathing quickly and shallowly.

Obviously, they _did_ expect. . .

Tony felt his throat constrict, and he lunged toward the bucket, emptying his stomach into it, over and over.

Maybe this _was_ the worst, after all. . .

After about twenty minutes, his stomach calmed down, and the girl seemed to stop being afraid - if her breathing was any indication, she had fallen asleep. Tony went over to her, lifted her gently, and put her on the bunk. Then he sat down on the floor, legs akimbo, and contemplated this. . . this. . . _god_. . . this horrible mess.

He didn't know if it was his reputation, or just a sick whim of his captors that made them think that he would want a woman - or, from the looks of things, a _child_ \- just because he was a man, and men liked sex.

But, for all his years of unbridled hedonism, there was one thing he'd never, _ever_ done. He had never taken anyone that didn't want to be taken. _Never_. Bedroom playfulness aside, no _always_ meant no, and what was the big deal with that? There were always plenty more options if one woman ever said no. In his younger days, he'd come close to statutory once (not quite, but close) and when his father had found out he had given him the worst beating of his life (and that _included_ his current predicament). Since then he had never, never, _ever_. . .

There was a damn big difference between a womanizer and a rapist.

And, looking at the small figure on the bunk, there was also a huge difference between hedonism and terrorism.

Actually, now that he thought about it, he had never, to his knowledge, deliberately slept with a married woman either. It wasn't like he cared unduly if he happened to do so, but, generally speaking, he just didn't go for things that clearly belonged to other people.

_I_ _**create** _ _things, dammit, not_ _**steal** _ _them. . ._

The figure on the bunk turned in her sleep, revealing a small, skinny arm, and half of her softly rounded, very young face. The terror was gone from her for the moment, and she seemed to Tony to be no more than 15.

_This kid probably hasn't even had a chance to be_ _**betrothed** _ _yet. . ._

He clamped down on his rebellious stomach, for it was threatening to revolt on him again.

There was no telling what the consequences for. . . not co-operating. . . were going to be, but he'd be damned if he violated some child just because he'd been thrown into the same cave with her.

_Don't care if I'm damned anyway. . . just. . . No. Never, never, going to do this. . ._

He put his head in his hands and focused on breathing.

The minutes ticked away.

It was perhaps the longest hour of Tony Stark's life.

It was funny how circadian rhythms worked. Here he was, in a very dark, non-climate controlled cave, and he could tell it was approaching lunchtime. He wasn't hungry, but he _knew_ the passage of time.

So he knew when it had been an hour, and he wasn't surprised when Raza and his pack of heavies showed up to take him back (he assumed) to the construction room. He wasn't shocked at Raza's impudent smirk either. He wondered if the man had been watching the little room the whole time. Tony couldn't see a camera, but then, he hadn't looked for one.

"And so the prince does not like the woman we chose for him?" he said, casually, as though it all were a game, "Well, perhaps you do not like them so young?" He walked over to the bunk, and roughly woke the girl, who gave a stifled shriek as he shoved her out of the room. "A pity. We will do better next time, Stark. . ."

"Bastard," Tony whispered, and mustered all his strength, jumping to his feet. He faced Raza straight in the eye, with closed fists and truculent jaw. "What. . . do. . . you. . . think. . . you're. . . doing? You CREEP!" He would have taken a swing at the man, but one of the guards laid a smart rap with his rifle butt on Tony's forehead, sending him reeling back against the stone wall.

Tony fought back the stars the blow had cast across his vision, and braced himself as Raza advanced on him.

"You are already one of us," Raza said, putting out a delicately threatening hand to the arc reactor, effectively holding Tony in place against the rough wall, "It remains only for you to realize it. . ." Raza leaned closer to his captive, and even in the dim light Tony could see the coldly triumphant gleam in his eyes, "You are a prince. . . and every prince must have a harem. Until you make your choice. . ." he snapped with his free hand, and there was a short burst of gunfire mingled with an even shorter scream.

Tony closed his eyes and held his stomach in check.

A rough push from Raza, and they were all back out in the corridor, but his captor was still speaking, quietly, conversationally. . . like Tony was an equal. . .

"Until we find what you like, Tony Stark - you may choose. Once a week you will have your choice. You will own them, or they will die. A prince's harem, or a ransom of blood. It is up to you."

Then Raza melted into the darkness, and the raucous group of guards deposited Tony back in the workroom with Yinsen.

* * *

He collapsed onto his bunk, only barely acknowledging Yinsen when he came over offering a glass of hot tea.

The doctor had set the glass on the small wooden box that served them for a bedside table, and then retreated to the worktables, attempting to sort out some pieces that would need to be soldered today if they were going to keep up their pace of work.

Finally, Tony sat up, and looked at Yinsen.

"You knew," he said, quietly.

Yinsen shook his head, "I only suspected."

"How?"

"They did the same to me." Yinsen's voice was sad.

Tony picked up the now cold tea, and downed it at a gulp, "Did they kill your girls too?

"Yes."

Tony looked sharply at his companion, "You never. . .?"

"No."

"How did you get them to stop?"

Yinsen laughed a little, "I am a surgeon, Stark. I did the obvious thing."

"To yourself?" Tony shuddered in horror at the thought.

"It was the only way," said Yinsen, his voice impossibly calm while imparting such grisly information, "I would rather be a man in my spirit, than in any other place. . . "

"Even if you're a prince?" said Tony, flinging himself back onto the bunk, and covering his eyes with his arm, "Because that's apparently what I am now. . ." his tone made it very clear he felt the deep sarcasm of the title Raza had used, "To be or not to be, and all that crap, you know."

Yinsen nodded, "However, _that_ is not the choice, Stark."

"No?" Tony somehow managed to sound skeptical and hopeful at the same time.

"No," said Yinsen, slowly, "It is between knowing that someone has died because of you, or knowing that you have ruined someone's soul, and perhaps your own as well. The choice is, which knowledge are you willing to live with?"

Tony sat up, splashed water on his face, and went back to working on the armor.

* * *

The next week the girl was somewhat older, and dressed in nothing but a nightgown.

An hour after he had again refused to touch the woman, they dragged them both outside, where the sun was so hot that the air and the light closed around him, making him feel ten times more claustrophobic than the dark and cold of the cave ever did. The shadows were so short, they were only ideas. All at once he knew what the term "high noon" was supposed to mean.

His eyes could only slowly adjust to the glare, but they made sure he was looking at the girl when they shot her.


	3. Midnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Trigger Warning*

The next week, things got tough.

Yinsen and he had been working on the back construct of the armor - since that was the part that looked the most like a Jericho missile, they tried to work a little on it every day, to keep up their charade as best they could.

Then the door slammed open again and the guards dragged him away from Yinsen and their project.

Two minutes later, he was back in that now hated little room, and the girl looked to be about twenty this time. She wasn't wearing anything at all, and had been tied to the bunk with chains he couldn't unlock. He fell to the floor, loudly cursing god and man.

Fifteen minutes after that, he finally spotted the camera. It had been cunningly hidden, and was hopelessly out of reach unless he could somehow manage to smuggle a flamethrower in here. . .

_Nah, let some guard get off to me sitting on the floor cursing, if he wants to. How could things get any worse?_

At the end of the hour, they did.

He had never been terribly into voyeurism, yet he'd often thought it had its merits. But after he had been compelled to watch as two of the guards came in and did what Raza now accused him of being unable to do, he never wanted to see what wasn't meant to be seen, ever again.

That was the only time he didn't know if the girl was dead or not. But he hoped she was.

* * *

The fourth one almost broke his resolve. She was clearly a prostitute, and just as clearly knew that she was probably going to die at the end of this encounter. She spoke softly and kissed him willingly enough. She smelled good and didn't have any obvious diseases.

For five minutes he contemplated ending this horrible string of murders and doing what he had to, just to let her live. . .

And then, with a great wave of adrenaline, it hit him that he had no assurance that she would. He hadn't the slightest control over what Raza and his men chose to do to these woman, regardless of what _he_ did. The "prince and the harem" thing. . . that was just to try and control him. They could kill and torture a hundred women, no matter what Tony Stark chose.

He stopped her advances, just holding her on his lap until the hour was over.

_I'd rather live knowing she died, than live knowing I gave in. . ._

That was the first time they taped a gun to his hand and made him fire the shot.

* * *

The fifth one had been dressed up to look like a man. The guards spat on her as they forced his hand around another gun.

* * *

The sixth one spoke English. She was twenty-four, and married to a man named Abdul. She didn't hate Americans. She wanted to be a fashion designer. Her name was Nailah. She thanked him for what he hadn't done.

The last thing she told him was that she didn't want to die.

* * *

The seventh one. . . All he remembered about her was that she had been heavily pregnant. . .

* * *

After that, things were hazy for a while. All Tony knew was that he had tried with all his being to forget the past few weeks, and that in some way, he had succeeded.

"He must be left quiet for a day or two," said Yinsen's voice, as though from far away, "He is nearly catatonic. . ."

And then, in the deepest chill of the night, he heard, "No more, please - or he will not be able to build the missile. . ."

He passed out before he could hear the reply.


	4. Evening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *No Triggers*

The last two weeks of his captivity were much like the first two. Yinsen, armor, bad food, boiled water. . . and no women.

Apparently, in his captor's opinion, near catatonia for three days was just as much of an unmanning as what Yinsen had done to himself.

And maybe, just maybe, Raza thought that his brainwashing had actually worked. After he was awake again, Tony threw himself into the "missile" project with such fervor that Yinsen didn't even bring up anything else. Neither Bakaar nor Raza mentioned the past seven weeks, and not one of the guards brought it up, either. It was as though the past two months had not happened. And when, on the last day, Raza threatened Yinsen, it was in such a way that Tony knew it was aimed at _him_ , not his fellow captive. And Tony reacted in a way Raza clearly had _expected_. . .

Yeah, Raza thought he had his man, all right. . .

It made blasting the cretin into smithereens so very, very satisfying. Evening the score could hardly be called revenge. No, it was the _right_ thing to do, and so he enjoyed it. So much so that Yinsen's death only countered that satisfaction a little. . .

After losing so much, the loss of Yinsen that day was just the final nail in the coffin of the old Tony Stark.

He didn't have to promise to be a different man, because he already was one.

* * *

After that, there was the desert, and sunstroke, and good old USA helicopters, and then Jim, and such a delirium of happiness that he hardly noticed that it took nearly two days to get to Madrid, but here he was, on the balcony of his castle in Spain, looking like only a very little had happened to him. Rhodey was worried about him, of course, which was why they had stopped here at all, instead of catching a flight directly to California.

Doctors had scanned and poked at him all day, and apparently he was a little malnourished, had some mild inflammation in his digestive tract, and some sprains and burns and superficial cuts and bruises, but nothing worse. The implant wasn't being rejected, and there was not a trace of septicemia.

If he hadn't stopped believing in them, he might have called that a miracle.

He sat on the balcony, watching the setting sun, because it had occurred to him that he hadn't watched a sunset in. . . way too long.

But as he stared at the glorious pomp and circumstance in the West, he knew that tomorrow meant home. . . and her. He had never worked so hard, never sweat so much, never put his all into something so completely as he had the past three months. He realized now that he had never really _worked_ for a goal before, and, if he were to be frank with himself, now that he had earned the right to go home, he was just a little scared.

_Okay, a lot scared._

Not about what he had to do, or who he had become, but whether or not she would stay with him through it.

Things hadn't exactly been safe for her before, but they were about to get a whole lot more dangerous.

He still couldn't let his mind say her name.


	5. Always

After Iron Monger, and Whiplash, and Hammer, and Loki, and the Chitauri, whenever Tony remembered that nameless cave somewhere in Afghanistan, those personally harrowing three months seemed rather small in comparison.

It was one thing to have gone through terror - it was another to realize that he wasn't alone. Bruce and Cap, and even Natasha and Thor had their own store of horror stories, which they slowly shared. Clint didn't talk much beyond quips, but Tony could see the history in his eyes. The same, quite literally, went for Fury.

Realizing he loved Pepper had made a big difference too, of course. Although. . . it had taken over six weeks for him to convince himself that just _wanting_ her was even _safe_. Then it had taken six _months_ for him to be sure that loving her was _right_. For at least four of those months, the mere presence of _any_ woman in his near vicinity was enough to make him shake with panic for that woman's safety. He'd been so comfortable with Natalie around for the simple reason that she'd proven she could _fight back_. She was obviously the last person on earth who would ever be helpless. Like most people, he hated that helpless feeling himself, but now, in his eyes, seeing other people helpless was quite definitely worse.

Twice rescuing Pepper from imminent danger had helped his panic reaction some, but honestly, where she was concerned, he just didn't want to take the risk.

And _who_ would have ever thought _that_? Of _him_?

But that hadn't stopped him from forming a foundation - he had started it right after outing himself as Iron Man.

It was called the Seven Women Foundation, and its mission was to build and maintain schools, safe-houses and hospitals for women throughout the Middle East and Asia, and was about to expand into Africa. It had become very popular very quickly, and now it ran with some of the most easily acquired government funding the U.S. had ever granted. The president himself loved the idea, and Tony had built up his own Boy Scout points by promoting it over the past year.

He never told anyone the story behind it, though. Not S.H.I.E.L.D., especially not Pepper, and not even Banner, who had clearly also been though hell and back, and might have understood. Truth was, Tony was actually a little jealous of Bruce and his ability to get stronger the more angry he got.

_If I could have broken out of that cave the first day I was there. . ._

But regrets did nothing but cut open old wounds.

_And it isn't like those seven deaths are the only ones I have to regret. . ._

He and Pepper had been putting the finishing touches on the re-build model of the Stark Tower all afternoon, and he had been stealing kisses whenever he could. Teasing her was fun, especially when she wore her casual clothes. It had been quite a pleasant surprise, the first time she had shown up in something other than her strict, sombre work attire. Now, when they were together, she would commonly wear sandels, and light, frilly tops, and shorts, or nice slacks, and sometimes. . . heaven help him. . . his t-shirts. She had to take a shower sometimes, and didn't always want to put on her own clothes afterward. It had been a rather delightful discovery to find out how good she looked in his old baggy red cotton MIT shirt with the fraying hem.

Hot _damn_. . . he didn't deserve such a lovely woman. . .

And apparently she knew that, but she was still with him, regardless.

The best part about it all was that she never pushed, never rushed, never deliberately tempted him - in short, never made him think she was doing something just because he was a man. . . and because men. . .

He never got much further in his analysis of their relationship, he was just glad she was there.

And that she was never afraid of him. _For_ him, yes, but never _of_ him. Yes, that was important. . .

"Tony, you okay?" The light worry in her voice broke him out the brown study he'd fallen into.

"Hmm?" he looked up, "Yeah."

"I asked - do you want some?" She was holding out a glass with a very nice white wine in it. It was her favorite. Once he'd discovered that, it had quickly become his favorite too.

"Sure. . ." A half a glass of wine with his best friend at the end of a productive day. . .

_Jeeze, who would have ever thought Tony Stark was content to play house?_

But he was. They sipped, and talked, and made funny little snacks out of crackers and cheese and olives and bits and pieces of the takeout leftovers that always filled up his kitchen.

And, not for the first time, they ended up on the couch, making out like teenagers, and just as absurdly hesitant to go any further.

Both _want_ and _need_ were out the window. It was down to _trust_ , and had been for a while now.

He was absorbed in making her giggle by tickling the inside of her elbow with his beard, when all at once she slid into his lap, making it very clear what she wanted.

She unbuttoned the first button of his shirt, looked him straight in the eyes and said, "Tony, I'm tired of waiting. . ."

 _You have no idea. . ._ "Mmm, me too," he buried his nose behind her ear.

Her fingers raked his hair, "Been waiting so long. . ."

He curved his hands behind her knees, pulling her closer, "Yeah. . ."

"Waited my whole life for you. . ."

"What?" his eyes snapped up to hers, his expression unbelieving and openly terrified.

"Tony. . ." she soothed, quite softly and unashamedly, "I'm a virgin, I. . ."

He had no clear memory of the next few minutes, but he must have pushed her away, and bolted to the other side of the penthouse, because he was kneeling in a corner, shaking all over, his face wet with tears he didn't remember crying.

She was standing over him, her face so worried, her eyes looking so _hurt_. . .

He couldn't stand her not knowing any more.

He desperately pulled her down next to him, holding her against the RT, and he took a few deep breaths.

Then he closed his eyes tight, and for the first time ever, started a sentence with the six words he had sworn he'd never say - never to anyone, and especially not to _her_.

"When I was in the cave. . ."

The story came out brokenly, half rushed and half explained, all the gore hastily skipped over, and all the implications pitifully clear nonetheless.

Seven women had died to make him who he was today.

She was shocked - he had been prepared for that. She got a little nauseous - he was surprisingly somewhat comforted by that. She asked questions he couldn't answer - he hadn't known just exactly _how_ unprepared for this conversation he really was. And she cried. He had known all along that she would, but it still _killed_ him to see her cry.

And he could see she understood. At last, she got it - why. Why nowadays he still ogled women, but was _entirely_ hands-off. Why he filled his speech with innuendo more than ever before, but never acted on any of it. Why she had found _zero_ porn on all of his computers for over a year. Why giving up the overnight "guests" had been so immediate and easy and _permanent_. Why he'd been so tentative with her for so long; why he cared more about her safety than her emotions so often; and most of all, why he had been so terrified of her inexperience just now.

She was the first one to know just _exactly_ the extent of the mental trauma those three months had inflicted on him.

She was also the only one alive who could understand just how much he wanted to. . . adore. . . and _cherish_. . . and yes, he'd take the risk - _love_ her in consequence.

But he couldn't trust _her_ when his own self-trust was non-existent.

"And I just. . . I couldn't. . . when I realized. . . when you didn't answer your phone, I thought. . ." he ended his story, awkwardly.

"Answer my _phone_?" She said, confused, but gamely trying to make a joke, "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

He chuffed a nervous laugh, "No, I mean. . . during the invasion. . . when I put the missile through the portal. . . I called you, and you didn't answer. . ."

She had no idea what that little incident had to do with anything, but it clearly did, so she asked.

"If I had answered, Tony, what would you have said?" She brushed the damp hair of his bangs out of his eyes.

"Thank you."

"Thank you?" She hugged him, since he so obviously needed it, "Is that all?"

"Yes," he said into the crook of her neck, "Thank you for being safe."

There was no answer to that. The sun had gone down, and the brilliant starry lights of the city shone though the open space of the penthouse. Jarvis hadn't brought up their indoor lights - they hadn't asked him to. She still knelt there, holding him, rocking him like a child, staring fixedly at the misty lights of the city.

She blinked. She looked again. It was raining.

She grinned a little, and stood up, pulling him with her.

"Well, Mr. Stark, regardless of what we do, or _don't_ do tonight, one thing is obvious." She spoke clearly and calmly, in her best PA voice.

His mouth twitched at her familiar tone, "And what's that, Ms Potts?"

"You need to do _one_ thing you never done before," she grinned at him, "And I know just the thing. . ." she took his hand and led him outside. Far from ignoring the rain, she opened her arms to the sky, letting the rain wet her hair and run down her clothes. She twirled and laughed like a little girl, then looked back to see him watching her, the rain starting to plaster his hair to his forehead and soak through his blazer.

He put out an arm and held her shoulders close, bringing the tip of his nose to just touch hers.

"How did you know I'd never done this?" he whispered.

"You never showered outside when it rained. . . "

He laughed delightedly for a few seconds before choking on the memories. He took one of her hands in his, settling the other one on her hip, and led her in an awkward, soggy, ridiculous, beautiful, necessary dance.

And at last, after untold months of mental paralysis, he let his mind think her name.

_Virginia. . ._

The irony of the name was not lost on him.

_Virginia. . . Virginia. . . Virginia. . ._

Something inside him felt. . . _clean_. He clung to her like the lifeline she was, completely ignoring the chilly rain that was soaking them both.

"Promise me something?" he ran his lips over her collarbone, relishing the gasp that started her reply.

"Anything."

"No matter how long it takes. . ." he buried his head in the crook of her neck, "You'll stay."

He felt her mouth smile against his ear.

"Always."

_Fin_


End file.
